The Many Loves of Dobie Gillis Read online

  All the way back to the Sentinel office my brain was clicking like a metronome. Something was very stinky, that was clear. Why was O’Toole buying Forty Acres when Minnehaha Heights was right next to it? Why did he want me to hold the story until the final edition? O’Toole was up to something and it wasn’t honest.

  I burst into the city room ready to spill my discovery to Mr. Oliver. But a strange sight greeted my eyes. The entire cityroom staff was assembled in a half circle around Mr. Oliver’s desk. To one side stood Lola, quaking in her culottes.

  “Ah,” cried Mr. Oliver upon seeing me, “just in time. Sit down, Gillis, and listen to this obituary that your friend Lola has just written. I want everyone to hear this.”

  I sat down.

  Mr. Oliver began reading:

  “‘No more will the flowers raise their multicolored heads and smile for Emmett T. Zoldin, upholsterer, of 475 Coolidge Ave. No more will the song of birds cheer his days. The winds will still blow and the rain will still fall upon the green earth, but Emmett T. Zoldin will not know.

  “‘For yesterday as Emmett T. Zoldin was bent over a Swedish Modern chaise longue in his upholstery shop, the Angel of Death with merciful swiftness extinguished the flickering candle of his life.

  “‘And no amount of tears from Yetta Zoldin, his widow, or from their son, Sam O. Zoldin, or from their daughter, Mrs. Arbutus Gottschalk, or from Emmett’s brother Pyotor, still living in their native Finmark, will bring Emmett T. Zoldin back. And tomorrow when the Abide With Me Mortuary lays his mortal remains to rest in Sunnyvale Cemetery, it will be the end of Emmett T. Zoldin on this earth.

  “‘Farewell, honest upholsterer!’”

  Mr. Oliver turned to Lola. “Where,” he screamed, “where in the name of all that’s good and holy did you learn to write an obituary like that?”

  Lola burst into tears.

  “Of all the lousy, crummy, garish, flamboyant, undisciplined, stupid, corny writing,” continued Mr. Oliver, “that I have ever had the misfortune to read, this is absolutely the—Will you stop blubbering?”

  Lola cried louder.

  “Please, little girl,” begged Mr. Oliver, “please, please stop crying.”

  Lola shifted into high.

  “For heaven’s sake, stop!” shrieked Mr. Oliver. “I can’t stand to hear a woman cry. Please, please, please. I’m sorry. I’ll give you anything you want. Please stop crying!”

  “I didn’t want to write any old obituaries,” wailed Lola. “Why can’t I go out and interview people like Dobie said?”

  “All right! All right! Just get out of here. Get out of my sight. Go anywhere. Do anything you want to. But get out of here.”

  Everyone stood up and went to his own desk. Lola came over to me and laid damp eyes on my shoulder. “There, there,” I said. I turned to Mr. Oliver. “Sir,” I said, “there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  “You!” he shouted. “Get out! Out! Out! Out! Both of you. Out!”

  He grabbed the shears and started after us.

  We decided to leave.

  Lola and I sat at lunch. “I wonder,” she said, “who I should interview. I don’t know anybody.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Listen, Lola, I ran into something big this morning. There’s some shady work going on down at City Hall. I saw O’Toole this morning, the commissioner of public works.”

  “Maybe,” interrupted Lola, “I could interview O’Toole.”

  I made an impatient gesture. “Listen, Lola, I think I’m on the trail of something big.” I told her what had happened.

  “Oh, listen to the juke box,” she said. “That’s Guy Lombardo playing ‘I’ll Never Waltz This Waltz Again, Walter, Unless I Waltz It with You.’”

  “I know that O’Toole’s a crook. I don’t know why he wanted me to hold the story until the final edition, but I know that only a crook would build an airport at Forty Acres when Minnehaha Heights is right next to it.… Lola, you’re not paying any attention to me.”

  “I am too. I can listen to you and take off my nail polish at the same time.”

  “I’m going back to City Hall and find out some things,” I said. “And when I get back, you can bet that Mr. Oliver is going to listen to me this time.”

  “Take me too,” said Lola. “I’ll go interview O’Toole.”

  “Can’t you think of anybody better to interview than that crook?”

  “Now, Dobie, don’t you pick on me too.”

  “Aaah—all right.”

  I took her down to City Hall and deposited her in O’Toole’s office while I went to ask some questions of my friend in the county surveyor’s office. I carefully wrote down what he told me. I thanked him and went to the office of the register of deeds.

  From there I went to the City Hall reference library and looked up a name in the city directory. Next I went to the city health department for some information. After that I stopped and saw the clerk of probate court. Then I saw the clerk of district court. Then I went to the marriage license bureau. My last stop was the register of births.

  It was three o’clock when I finished my rounds. I had all the facts I needed and time enough to write the story for the final edition. I ran out of City Hall and grabbed a cab back to the Sentinel. O’Toole, I thought grimly as I rode, is going to get a story in the final edition all right, but it won’t be the story he thinks.

  I went right to Mr. Oliver’s desk. He wasn’t going to chase me away this time. “Tear out the front page!” I shouted as I drew up before him. “I’ve got the story of the year!”

  “You whelp,” said Mr. Oliver, reaching for his shears. “You call yourself a reporter. I assigned you to cover the commissioner of public works, the easiest beat in town, and you muffed it. If it hadn’t been for Lola we wouldn’t have had the story. I may have misjudged her, but I was right about you. You stink.”

  “What story? What are you talking about?” I asked in amazement.

  Mr. Oliver shoved a copy of the home edition toward me. “How could you have missed that story? Why, if Lola hadn’t stopped in to interview O’Toole, we never would have had it.”

  I looked at the front page. Waves of disbelief passed over me. No, it couldn’t be!

  But there it was, headline and all:

  NEW MUNICIPAL AIRPORT TO BE

  BUILT AT MINNEHAHA HEIGHTS

  August R. O’Toole, commissioner of public works, revealed exclusively to the Sentinel this afternoon that a new municipal airport will soon be constructed at Minnehaha Heights in north Minneapolis.

  “Lola!” I gasped. “Where’s Lola? I’ve got to see Lola.”

  “She’s at her desk,” said Mr. Oliver. “Now, Gillis, I’ve got some things to say to—”

  But I didn’t stay. I ran across the office to Lola’s desk. She was putting up her hair. “Lola!” I yelled.

  “Hello, Dobie,” she said brightly.

  “Lola! Where did you get that story?”

  “From Mr. O’Toole.”

  “Did he say that he was going to build the airport at Minnehaha Heights?”

  “Well—”

  “Did he?”

  “Well, not exactly.”

  “Then why did you write that story?”

  “Well, it’s your fault, Dobie.”

  “My fault? In God’s name, why?”

  “Because you said at lunch today that only a crook would build an airport at Forty Acres when Minnehaha Heights is right next to it. And I know that Mr. O’Toole is not a crook. Therefore he wouldn’t build an airport at Forty Acres. Therefore he’s going to build one at Minnehaha Heights. See?”

  She went back to fixing her hair.

  I sat down. “Now, Lola,” I said, “let’s go through this once more. Slowly. You say that if Mr. O’Toole is not a crook he won’t build the airport at Forty Acres.”

  “That’s what you said.”

  “All right. That’s what I said. And you say that he’s going to build the airport at Minnehaha H
eights because he’s not a crook.”

  She nodded.

  “How,” I screamed, “do you know that he’s not a crook?”

  “Dobie,” said Lola, “you’ve talked to Mr. O’Toole. You’ve heard him speak of his wife and children, how they bob for apples after dinner and play Twenty Questions. You’ve heard him say that there is nothing like a home and children and friendship and love and mother and the Constitution.

  “How,” concluded Lola triumphantly, “could such a man be a crook?”

  “Great balls of fire!” I said slowly. “Great balls of fire.” I slapped myself in the forehead several times. “And that is why you wrote your story.”

  “Of course, silly. You got any gum, Dobie?”

  I took both her hands and looked deep into her eyes. “Lola, do you know what you have done?” I asked.

  But she never got a chance to answer. Because suddenly blazing across the city room in a whirl of paper and overturning typewriters came Mr. Oliver and Mr. O’Toole.

  “You!” screamed Mr. Oliver.

  “You!” screamed Mr. O’Toole.

  Lola leaped on my lap.

  “I’ll have you thrown in jail,” bellowed Mr. O’Toole. “I’ll have you run out of town. I’ll sue. I’ll prosecute. I’ll have you tarred and feathered.”

  “I’ll drum you out of the business,” roared Mr. Oliver. “I’ll see to it that you never set foot in a newspaper office again. I’ll put you on every blacklist in the country.”

  O’Toole took over. “You Jezebel. You lying, thieving, sneaking shrew. You double-tongued hag. You viper. You deceitful witch.”

  I am the type guy that can be pushed just so far and no farther. I spilled Lola off my lap and stood up. I pointed a finger at O’Toole.

  “You,” I snarled. “You are a fine one to call people names. You crook. You thief. You embezzler.”

  “Now, just a minute—” began O’Toole.

  “Just a minute yourself. Sit down, O’Toole. You too, Oliver. You’re going to listen to me for a while.

  “This afternoon,” I said, “I made some very interesting discoveries in the City Hall. First I went to the office of the register of deeds.”

  O’Toole blanched.

  “I looked up the title to Forty Acres,” I went on. “It was listed under the name of Abel Hanson. I went to the city directory to find out who Abel Hanson was. His name was not listed. I figured that he might have died, so I went to the health department and looked at their mortality records. Abel Hanson was dead all right.”

  O’Toole squirmed.

  “So,” I said, “I went to the clerk of probate court to find out who was the executor of Abel Hanson’s estate. I learned that he had died without heirs and without leaving a will. Probate court had appointed the Mill City Trust Corporation as executor.

  “That didn’t tell me very much, so I went to the clerk of district court to look up the articles of incorporation of the Mill City Trust Corporation. I found that it was owned by four men: John Guthrie, Harold Peters, Arthur Goodkind, and George Gilfillan.

  “Playing a hunch, I went to the marriage license bureau. I looked up the marriage license of August R. O’Toole.”

  O’Toole wiped his brow.

  “I found that O’Toole was married on July 8, 1925, to one Agnes Gilfillan. I went over to the register of births. I found that Agnes Gilfillan and George Gilfillan, curiously enough, were brother and sister.

  “Your brother-in-law, O’Toole, is executor of Forty Acres. That’s why you were going to buy that swamp for an airport. There was going to be plenty in it for you and your brother-in-law to split.

  “And now I know why you wanted me to hold that story for the final edition. You wanted the story to be in the paper before you signed the contract for Forty Acres. You didn’t want to be accused of making the transaction secretly. But you didn’t want the story to be in an early edition because then there would have been a chance that somebody would have gone to City Hall and looked up all those things that you thought I wasn’t smart enough to find out. You knew very well that the offices at City Hall close at four o’clock and that the final edition isn’t on the streets until four-thirty. Anybody who saw the story in the paper and wanted to make an investigation wouldn’t be able to start until tomorrow morning. And you were going to sign the contract first thing in the morning.”

  Mr. Oliver was on his feet now. He came over and put his arm around me. “What do you say, O’Toole?” he asked.

  O’Toole swallowed several times. “Why, the whole thing is preposterous,” he said. “Absolutely ridiculous. I don’t know what this boy is talking about. I never had the slightest intention of buying Forty Acres. I was going to buy Minnehaha Heights all the time. Why, it says so in the paper.”

  “Scram, O’Toole,” said Mr. Oliver. “Get out. And don’t let me see your name on the ticket at election time this fall. Do you understand?”

  “Eh?” said O’Toole. “What? What’s that? Oh yes. Yes, of course. I—I was thinking of retiring anyhow. Twelve years of quiet devotion to the service of the people, a man needs a rest. Yes.”

  “Out,” said Mr. Oliver.

  O’Toole left. Fast.

  “Dobie,” said Mr. Oliver with strange tenderness, “I don’t know what to say. As long as I’m alive, you can have a job on this paper. And as for you, young lady, if I never see—”

  “Lay off her, Mr. Oliver,” I said. “She’s a good kid.”

  Mr. Oliver paused, shook his head sadly, and went back to his desk.

  “Lola,” I said, “let’s face it. You’re just not bright.”

  “I guess you’re right, Dobie.”

  “I got you off this time, Lola, but frankly, I’m worried about you. I may not always be around to save you. You’ve got to learn to think for yourself, Lola. You’ve got to discipline your mind. All you ever think about is dancing and tobogganing. There are more important things in life, Lola.

  “Sometimes, Lola, I wish that you were poor. Then you would have to think about making a living. Then you would have to consider the hard, practical things of life. But, of course, you never give a thought to money.”

  “I wonder how much the city will pay for Minnehaha Heights,” said Lola, piling up her back hair.

  “Life is real, Lola, life is earnest and—What’s that? How much will the city pay for Minnehaha Heights? Quite a bit, I’m sure. Why do you ask?”

  “Because,” said Lola, pulling a wisp of hair off her shell-like ear, “I own it.”

  The King’s English

  I used to have a convertible with long, rakish lines and a girl named Poppy Herring, also with long, rakish lines. It was Poppy’s lines—and only her lines—that won my heart. The attraction was entirely physical. Mentally, emotionally, spiritually, we were light-years apart. I am sensitive, she was crass. I am romantic; she was commercial. I am a flute; she was a trumpet. I am old ivory; she was stainless steel.

  But being a worshiper of beauty, I could not resist her. She had so much beauty to worship that I almost had to put on an extra man. Her symmetry, the architecture of her limbs, the melody of her movements, her planes and hollows, her peaks and valleys—all this was more than I could withstand. I was mad for her the moment I saw her.

  Our first meeting occurred in Professor Snaith’s freshman English class on the opening day of the spring semester. I had gotten to class a little early and was already seated when Poppy came in. She took the chair next to mine. She was dressed in a dirndl and a peasant blouse that revealed one creamy shoulder. I turned to her with a smile of frank admiration. She looked at me with some nervousness and hitched up the blouse to cover the exposed shoulder. At this, the other shoulder came uncovered. My smile broadened. She seized the blouse with two hands and pulled it up over both her shoulders. This proved unsatisfactory—to her, not to me—because now the neckline of the blouse popped out in a sort of massive décolletage. I clapped my hands delightedly.

  “How would you like a
hit in the eye?” she inquired in a hostile manner.

  I was preparing a soft answer when Professor Snaith walked into the classroom. “I’ll talk to you later,” I whispered and turned my attention to the professor. Physically, he was not an imposing man. He was little and bent. Only a few white hairs remained on his lumpy cranium. His eyes were beady, his nose was overlong, his thin lips curved downward in a perpetual sneer. His ancient blue serge suit gleamed dully, like the sides of a hearse.

  Unprepossessing though he was, I still looked at him with respect. For Professor Snaith was a renowned scholar. His book, Snaith’s English Usage, was the standard freshman text in hundreds of American colleges. On matters concerning grammar and diction, he had been a universally accepted authority for more than thirty years.

  Not to brag, but I was a bit of an authority on English usage myself. Having literary ambitions, I was naturally concerned with the English language. I had devoted years to a careful study of the mother tongue; I doubt whether there was another eighteen-year-old man in the country with such a command of the language as I. But immense as my knowledge of the subject was, I still felt that I might learn something from an expert like Professor Snaith. Indeed, the reason I had come to the University of Minnesota in the first place was because Professor Snaith taught there.

  The professor rapped on the lectern for attention. When the class was quiet, he began. “Owing to the fact that this is the first day of the semester,” he said, “I shall dismiss the class early.… You will note that I said owing to and not due to. Due to is incorrect unless preceded by the verb to be. For instance, you may say, ‘The postponement of the ball game was due to rain.’ But you may not say, ‘Due to rain the ball game was postponed.’”

  I raised my hand.

  “Yes?” said the professor impatiently.

  I rose and addressed him with a friendly smile. “Sir,” I said, “I am not unmindful of your eminence as an English scholar. Believe me, I intend no disrespect when I tell you that you are wrong.”

  “Wrong, did you say?” he asked, looking at me incredulously.

  I nodded ruefully. “Yes, sir. You say due to must be preceded by the verb to be. But I use it without the verb to be. So does my whole family. So do all my friends. So do all the people I’ve ever talked to or listened to. Yet you say it is incorrect. Wake up, my dear man. Can everyone be out of step but you?”